Oct. 11th, 2007

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Rehab scams have always fascinated me ever since at the age of 16 I was locked up for nine months in one of the most notorious of them all, the infamous Synanon. Chuck Dietrich, Synanon's frontman, was a bona fide paranoid schizophrenic and my memories of the place – rather scant, I'm afraid – are mostly of performing complicated paramilitary exercises on a grassy hillside while the morning mists rose off nearby Tomales Bay.

Anyway, I read this LA Times' article on Malibu's rehab ghetto with great fascination. What a fuckin' scam! Forty-two thousand dollars for a month at Promises! I question whether any addict is compis mentis enough in the legal sense to sign an enforceable contract.

I've been thinking I really ought to contact Promises and offer them my unique hot sauce addiction cure. Thirty cc's of red Savina habanero, qid! Not only would this help patients – er, clients – sweat out the toxins, but it would also boost their metabolisms by 25% and provide that warm interior endorphin glow of which the heroin high is only a funhouse mirror reflection.

In other news, Doris Lessing? Odd choice given that for the last thirty years she's mostly been writing turgid and increasingly inaccessible science fiction. At least they didn't pick (shudder) Philip Roth. How come no one ever thinks of Joyce Carol Oates?

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